Lately, Lovingly
by Kewalea
Summary: A letter from an older sister to her little brother. ((OC's, almost AU, not terribly related to the actual storyline of FMA until several chapters in, super secret surprise inside))
1. Chapter 1

Tommy, Dearest,

Many things are going to happen in next few days. No matter what happens, there are things I want you- I _need_ you- to know in order to understand why these events are about to transpire. Within the contents of this letter are going to be things you can't understand now, but that is okay. You only need to know them. Our origin, our reasons for being, our creator, our history, everything you need to know about our family. The world is afraid of us and will make many lies about us, but you must know the truths behind us. Tommy, we love you. Forgive us.

I'll start from the beginning- the real beginning.

* * *

The man sits at his workbench, a kitchen table strewn with papers, blue prints, various vials containing liquids in different shades of red. It's quiet but for the low snores of creatures. It's dark but for the first lights of dawn.

The man is alone and content to be so at this time. He strokes his beard, a long majestic tribute to his late lack of personal hygiene. He has not eaten in two days; his work is incomplete.

His house is incomplete, wanting a roof with all its shingles, wanting an attic with no bats. Even the room he is in, the dining room, is covered in dust and debris of a storm of forty years ago. He has just moved in, a new beginning for what he plans to be an end, a kind of aubade in itself.

He shifts through his plans, feeling as if there is something he is supposed to know but has yet to understand, to find the meaning behind these meanings. His brows come together, his eyes become slits, as if squinting at it will somehow make his writings make more sense. He sighs and sits back in his chair, the only complete one in the room. He puts his hands in his lap and looks around to the what is left of the house.

He does not know who owned the house last. He does know that it was abandoned after its demise. He knows people ignore it. He has no malicious intentions. He carefully considers the contents of the dining room, eyes unjudging, hands neatly folded in his lap. He is an old man. He is taking things slowly. The first object his eyes fall on is the painting besides the window directly in front of him. It portrays a woman who was lovely in her time, dressed simply in a summer dress with her hair pulled back. This woman was probably dead, but could've been a wonderful hostess when she was alive. She might have held many parties (the shape of her eyebrow, the curve of her smile told him this) in this very room and many people must've complimented her on the fine house she lived in. She would take these compliments with grace as is due a lady such as herself, and would take however many guests would tag along on a whirlwind tour of the house, describe both levels in detail and all 12 of the bedrooms and all 7 ½ bathrooms and the dining room and parlor and the living room and the study and as she did so, she might've been asked, "How can you afford such luxuries? Who are you hosting to need such space?" And she would smile and gently shake her head; a lady will never tell the secrets of her home. She would not tell them of the basement. This lady did not speak of the taboo her husband would perform in the lower levels of the house, would not use any sort of speech to gratify the smile of her husband during the shrieks of their _things_ (their babies, her husband assured her, their children). No, she was proper. She would smile. She would serve the most delicious of cheeses and the most delicate of wines. She would laugh when necessary and would never need to raise her voice. She was the center of attention after all. She would never bear children, herself, but she wouldn't need to. She had all the love she needed.

But the man fabricates this story. He has no knowledge of the house's history. He will, however, hold this story in his mind, preferring it over whatever is true. He continues to let his eyes fall where they will, becomes less attached to the objects within the room. Most are ruined by wear, by lack of use, by water, by the elements. There might've been a small fire here once. A breeze comes from the window, or rather through the shards of what is left. Weeds are starting to grow along what is left of the window sill, creeping into the house from the small gap it created from not being closed completely. Human paraphernalia laid strewn about. Porcelain pieces, chair legs, canvas fabric of what might've been a masterpiece. Everything out of place. Everything incomplete. His work was incomplete.

His face lit up with a new spark. Yes, that was it. Everything was out of place. He bends down to his work and does not raise his head again for five hours. When he does raise his head, it contains a smile. He rises and fetches for himself his first meal in several days: an apple and a glass of water.

His work is not yet done, but all that is left is to put everything in it's place.


	2. Chapter 2

The man's beard gains more white hairs, but they do not prevent him from continuing his work. He has an apprentice, a young man of 25. They are living in the house and have been for five years. Their work is incomplete but it has made substantial progress.

There are more residents in the now complete house. They are of a most curious nature, one created by the man and overseen by the apprentice. They are quite proud.

The man and the apprentice sit in rocking chairs on the porch of the house, a wide, spacious place hidden partially by a large garden. The man smokes; the apprentice reads. The other residents play in the large, grassy field.

The field is a spectacle to behold. Miles upon miles of endless grass stretch unto the horizon, mother natures own little contribution to the raising of the residents. They do love it dearly. They are playing in it now, shouting at one another in happy tones, running about, some on feet, others on paws. There are four residents, all between the ages of 3 and 4. There is Sam, Timone, Rebecca, and Ilsy, all with their own eccentricities. Sam throws a stick to Timone who catches it in his mouth, his flesh colored dog ears, flapping about, and runs on all fours away, laughing as the others try to catch him. Ilsy does not run as fast as the others, but she climbs the nearest tree with ease and jumps off, stretching the flaps beneath her arms to glide well past Sam and Rebecca and in front of Timone, who stops short. Rebecca laughs and rolls on the ground, her calico tail and ears twitching with every shiver of her gut. Sam tackles Timone and gnaws playfully on his ear, a sign of friendship to him. Sam is smaller than the others, barely a foot off the ground, but no one minds his unusually large mouse ears or his scaly paws. No one takes notice of their appendages. They don't know who they were, but they know their other minds, the animals that they share a consciousness with. They are all too young to understand.

The man stands up and calls them inside for lessons. They run back to the house with excitement. They know another brother is coming soon and they talk about him in excited whispers for many days to come.


	3. Chapter 3

The man lies in his bed surrounded by his children. His apprentice is called Master, but the man will always be Creator. His children are not children, in fact. They have matured well in their created bodies. Feathers now stiff, ears pointed and defined. They are 20 and 35 and everything in between and Creator is old and not going to change much more. He has grown into his body. His work is complete. He is not alone and is content to be so. They have learned much.

Creator coughs up a bit of mucus and Ilsy wipes it off with a sad smile. She was always the nurse, despite what one might associate with her beady, pure black eyes and leathery bat wings. Creator is pale now, pale as pages of books. He is cold and requests more blankets. He is calm and requests no tears. Creator stares at the ceiling and becomes dreadfully still.

"You know," he says, "we've come so far to be in this place." He observes the smallest cracks in the ceiling, as if squinting will show him the meaning behind their meanings. "You are all so much more than anything-" he coughs ferociously and lies back down, "-than I, I, I could have ever hoped for. Never, never let them tell you what you are. You are exactly what you are meant to be, each and all, everyone in this world."

He becomes relaxed, as if in five second's time he has reached Nirvana. "Just as you're meant to be," he whispers and smiles. He smile does not fade from his lips as Master closes his eyes, as small moans and sobs emerge from his ten creations.

The funeral is simple, as he wanted it to be. All of the arrangements were pre-made. His coffin is white, the proper color of death and the burial happens in the field with the brothers and sisters whose bodies didn't accept their transformations. There are 13 as it stands, but 10 still live and they are getting better at perfecting Creator's work. Creator lies peacefully. Master and his new children live in the house, working diligently, living happily, or as happily as they can without Creator. They have plans, great plans. Creator is dead and his work is complete. They are alive and they have a new project; they're work is incomplete.


	4. Chapter 4

I am born into a world much different than the happiness and sunshine of the house. I am told this when I am ten years old, paying more attention to the kids outside than my lesson. Rebecca is teaching me. Her ears point back, her annoyance clear as the frown on her face. She does not like teaching and I do not like learning. She is, however, the one who found me and we all learn our stories when we turn ten, for those who turn ten. Death is less frequent than it used to be, but it is not uncommon. It is accepted.

"I found you in the city where many humans live," Rebecca said, walking to the large map on the wall. She looks it over quickly to find the exact place. I am the only one she found that lived past the transformation. She is very protective of me. She is something like a mother and something like a sister. Maybe she is like an aunt? But in truth, she is too old to be any. She will be 47 soon. Master, also, is getting old, but he seems well enough. Rebecca regains my attention with the slap of a ruler on a table.

"You were the smallest baby I had seen," she says as if it is the second time, and follows it in a softer tone, "And maybe that is why you lived." She walks back to me, the only real sign of her age being her silver hair. She is still as lithe as the stories say. She sits on the table beside me. Our classroom is small, since I am her only student. There are two desks. I sit at one and she leans over to be closer to me.

"I found you wrapped in a towel, just a small, little thing. You were abandoned in a box. No home, no family…," she trails off and wraps me in a hug. "So we made you a part of our family." I giggle and hold her arms with my furred hands. My hair is red like poppy except for the white tips on my pointed ears. My face is sharp, but my tail is bushy. I don't mind my legs as much as Charlie does; they're curved with small paw feet. I think they're cute. Charlie's feet are hooved, though; perhaps that is the difference. Foxes are closer to humans that goats.

Rebecca kisses my head and I look outside. She knows my attention span won't last much longer. She sighs and walks over to her book. "Alright," she says with defeat, "Go outside. See Ilsy after nightfall. You've got a check-up." I nod enthusiastically and hug Rebecca. I run outside and join my brothers and sisters in play. There are 20 in my generation and there are 30 alive. We live in our house, blissfully ignorant that if anyone knew there was a houseful of chimeras was living in the country, we'd all join our brothers and sisters in their graves.


	5. Chapter 5

My name is Clara and I am 12. The friend in my head, the animal I share a body with, is named Tevan. She is getting rambunctious. I might die soon.

The family members who survive are the one's who's bodies and minds agree with one another. They decide that they like each other. That is how Rebecca explains it to me. She has gotten many new silver hairs. I think I worry her.

I am in the field alone. This is not strange; I am fluid. I like to be alone and I like to be with people. I have no preference, most days. I make small braids into my hair, trying to ignore Tevan. I know my body is starting to reject her. I am changing very much, moving into an adult.

I feel Tevan stirring, feel it in my stomach, feel it moving into my arms and legs and making her way to my head. She wants control. She is becoming wild. I try to press her down.

_No!_ I tell her in my mind, _My body! Go away!_ She does listen. I feel like a trillion small bubbles are pressing against my skin all over. This is her. She is feeling my nerves, the ones that I brought to our shared existence. They bubble and fade and I start to become numb. She does not speak words like me, but we share a mind and I know that Tevan is scared. I know that she does not want to go back to sleeping inside my mind, though. I lose all feeling everywhere. I close my eyes and all the world falls away from me.

I am told when I wake up that I had run away into the forest. Timone and Flora, who is human and cheetah, followed me to bring me home. I am told that I looked afraid. I ran like wind in rainfall: shaky and fleeting. I made it very far. Flora caught me and made me- no, Tevan- smell herbs to calm her down. Tevan rejected this. She scratched Flora's arm badly and kept running. She almost made it to the place where we are not meant to be, the place of humans. Timone performed alchemy to stop her. He made a small earthquake. She hit her head and fell asleep. I have a red bump on my head. It hurts me.

Rebecca is holding me in her lap and crying little tears. A few fall onto my cheek and roll into my hair. My ears twitch, sensing the uncomfortable air. I ask Rebecca why she is crying. She stops for a moment and grips me tighter. "You are awake," she says and I know that she means Tevan is asleep. Tevan is no longer in control of our body. I have made it past the hardest part of becoming older: having to share a mind. Now, when this happens, it will be easier. We will come closer and closer together until we are in peace and balance. Then, we will both be in control, but more importantly, we will be in true sync.


	6. Chapter 6

When I am 14 and you are 5, Master and all the family of the first generation were killed by those who wear the strange tattoos upon their body and who are falsely human. They say they are like us. We know they are wrong.

We live in the house and are not allowed outside except for with the one named Gluttony. We do not like him. There are graves with stones we painted for Master and the ten original creations, although they're bones are not buried there. Their bones are buried within the stomach of Gluttony, but we laid their spirits into the ground with the Creator. They will tell us how to seek revenge, but they will first tell us how to escape.

When we become orphans of the family there are some who try to escape. They are not killed; Lust calls them valuable. We call them family. We also call them stupid. They are Rex, who is human and lion, Terry, who is human and tiger, and Flora. They are the oldest members of the family now, but they are all 18 and 17. We must plan our escape, but we must do it without words.

We plan with our eyes and our hands. We do this casually. We disguise our meanings behind other meanings. "Are we running out of bread?" means many things. Pointing towards the bread means running out of patience. Pointing at the wheat and grain meal means hiding places. Pointing at the fields where they are grown means running out of ideas. We have hundreds of these phrases. We are smart. We were taught by Master and the ten creations. We are strong as the alchemy that made us.

We do not have lessons from the ones with strange tattoos upon their chest. Instead, we teach the younger generation in secret, your generation, Tommy. We teach you mathematics and alchemy, reading and sometimes combat. We teach the history of those who are only human, at least that which we have. We think we have taught you well. We have our doubts.

We use lessons as meetings for plans. Plans to gather food for our escape, tools, maps. The tattooed people may suspect, but if they do, they do not show. What they want with us, we do not know. How they found us, we do not know. We know that they smile with false faces and hug with daggers. Their affection is misleading and intentionally so. We must escape before they devour us, too.

We use colors, all colors. When we use red we mean that there is danger, that any plan or meeting must be canceled. We use blue when all is well. Yellow means caution, that plans will proceed but we must be very careful. White and black are sacred colors. They are our colors. We are white as sickness and black as possibility. We are balance. Soon, we shall tip fortune into our favor.


End file.
